


All and Along

by obsessedwithstabler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, angst like whoa, blame Chris Young
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessedwithstabler/pseuds/obsessedwithstabler
Summary: The whiskey ain't strong enough to make this right. Coda to All Along the Watchtower.





	All and Along

**Author's Note:**

> A thing that popped into my head at an ungodly hour. Written in about five minutes. Could be seen as a coda for All Along the Watchtower. So much angst.

_No, I'm not hungover it's true, but I'm still not over you_

_All messed up, all strung out, I was sitting at home breaking down_

_I'm not out there getting high underneath some neon lights_

_Ain't no whiskey strong enough to make things right_

_I'm just getting over another sober Saturday night_

\--Chris Young, Sober Saturday Night

He couldn’t breathe.

The neon lights no longer held that same allure. The beautiful, lonely eyes in the corner could not tempt him from his seat. The drum of the music, the smoke burning his eyes…

His hands clenched into fists and suddenly he launched himself from the barstool, sending it clattering to the floor. No one stopped him as he ran for the exit.

They never did.

Cold air bit his cheeks and the lights of the passing cars momentarily blinded him.

When would this stop hurting?

Familiar hands gripped his shoulders and he recognized his brother’s soothing voice, but he didn’t respond. What could he say? What words would make sense of any of this?

His eyes closed and when he reopened them, he was standing behind the bunker. Something was clenched in his fists and he hit his knees in the damp grass. The tan trenchcoat twisted in his fingers and he let out a shuddering breath.

The world spun on around him, never stopping even as he opened his eyes. His blurry vision settled on the homemade cross. It openly mocked him with the name painstakingly carved into it.

Castiel Winchester.

Dean closed his eyes again and reached out as he had done a thousand times before, grasping the small, unassuming cross.

“Cas, please…”

A sob nearly took his breath as he clutched the trenchcoat to himself with his other hand.

“Please…”

His body shuddered and heaved.

“Cas…”

He dropped his head again, never wiping at the tears that poured down his cheeks.

“Please.”

_Finis._


End file.
